


the dinners are terrible

by wrabbit



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Teasing, They're drinking, Tickling, Under the Table Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: Fuck the man once, or two or three times as it may be, and know no peace.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	the dinners are terrible

It's hot and loud in the closed space of the wardroom, stuffed with more men than he would have thought possible for the occasion of Lieutenant Irving's birthday. They've barely breached the second course before Francis is sweating and itching in his vest. 

He is sandwiched between Little and bloody Fitzjames, who will not stop fiddling with his place setting and who keeps turning to direct his humorous comments at Le Vesconte down the other side, like tossing a ball back and forth over Francis' head. Not a cannonball, but very loud and irksome nonetheless. 

Lieutenant Little's elbow brushes against his arm whenever he raises fork or glass to his face. 

Francis leans back in his seat to avoid it. He stretches his boot out and comes into contact with something - Irving's shin bone. Now Little is reaching across for more gravy, spilling it over Francis' plate.

He is dying. He's going to die. He's going to kill the next person that touches him. 

It's Fitzjames, of course, pressing their boots together under the table. Fuck the man once, or two or three times as it may be, and know no peace.

Francis shuffles his feet together and clears his throat. A few minutes later, it's the back of a hand caressing the side of his leg under the tabletop. Francis digs his nails into the soft underside of Fitzjames' wrist until he is forced to tug his own arm away, having a sudden need to blot his face with his napkin.

And so on.

He leans back and crosses his arms when cool fingers slide over his wrist. He knocks down the leg Fitzjames crosses over his knee to press against his. If Francis turns away any further, he'll be in Little's lap.

Francis knows that Fitzjames notes him. He knows this because he turns and glares at the man encroaching on his space until the commander, fussing over his pudding, acknowledges the daggers boring into the side of his face by budging over an inch. 

He slaps the next hand that touches him, not just a graze this time but a brazen pinch to the inner thigh that Fitzjames sneaks in during a burst of humour sparked by Irving's rather good impression of a sheep. It sends the officers laughing uproariously and calling encores to an extent that seems unwarranted as well as unfair to Lieutenant Irving.

When they've settled, Fitzjames' calf is still glued to his. Because he can neither strike the other man again nor express his ire in any other manner, Francis squeezes the offending knee and moves it firmly aside. 

He is startled himself when Fitzjames jolts in his seat and nearly spills his water glass over the table. There's another round of laughter from the officers, more regarding the sheep, and Fitzjames smiles all around, airy and utterly false. He glances at Francis underneath it all. 

Francis has and has quarreled with packs of siblings and cousins. He has sat through interminable meals, each child served one ladle at a time, squirming elbow to elbow, waiting for their father to raise his own spoon to his mouth before digging in. He can handle one outrageous man. He ignores Fitzjames' uncertain look and leans back to rest his glass against his chest. 

It's easier to relax and let it wash over him, with an ending in sight. Particularly after Jopson comes by with a decanter. 

Francis knocks his heel against Fitzjames' boot when the dinner finally starts to break up. "Stay a while," he suggests, under the chatter and the goodbyes, and yet another nerve-wracking round of song.

Sir John makes the final toast and is one of the first to leave. Fitzjames, after managing not to harass him for ten whole minutes, keeps Le Vesconte talking for another five, challenging Francis' reserves of goodwill.

He rests a hand on James' thigh before Hoar and Le Vesconte are even fully out of the room, prancing off at last and leaving the captains alone to discuss the latest magnetic readings or whatever excuse James has offered. 

James clears his throat when the door swings shut and he visibly deflates, shedding a layer of the costume that Francis doesn't believe Fitzjames ever truly takes off. Perhaps not even in complete privacy. 

He looks at Francis still sitting so close in the sudden silence, heavy after such a racket, and he swallows. So transparent, so hopeful, so apparently unaware of how irritated Francis is at the moment. "Did you really want to - ?" 

Francis almost feels sorry for him, fool that he is, as he slides his hand down to James' kneecap again. "I could kill you," he says, and squeezes the way he did before. 

James inhales sharply and his leg hits the underside of the table, sending up a clatter. Now he is the one bruising Francis' arm and glowering.

"Let me up," James demands lowly, looking rather alarmed. He almost manages to sound commanding.

"Why? What was that all for, then?"

James makes a valiant effort to escape, but there's nowhere to get to between Francis on one side and the other way blocked by Sir John's seat, not when he's trying to push Francis away at the same time anyway.

"Damn you! Francis!"

"You're sending me mixed signals," Francis complains and slaps James' hands trying to ward him off.

"Don't," James yelps, when Francis finally gets a hand around his ticklish knee again.

He crumples quickly, falling face first over the table to muffle pained curses in his own sleeve and reaching below to scrabble at Francis' wrist.

Francis takes an elbow to the shoulder and digs underneath James' knee, also good, and gets him laughing properly. 

Good, but Francis thinks he can do better. He squeezes up and down his leg, seeking the right spot. 

"Ah, here," he says when James slams the table and upsets the gravy well. 

When James has stopped cackling long enough to curse at him, Francis clamps down again. A few rounds of that and he is begging for mercy. 

Francis stands up with some difficulty in the cramped space between the wall and the table, leaves James wheezing on his elbows. He swipes James' wine glass and finishes it for him. It serves him right. 

"I never thought... Good Christ."

"Well, there you are," Francis says. "Now I know how to restrain you."

James sniffs, sorting out his mussed hair. "Don't bother. I'm never sitting near you again."

"Try to avoid it," Francis warns. He eyes Fitzjames, sidling out from behind the table and straightening his jacket. 

He rolls upright and regathers his pride. "I'll get out of your hair, then, shall I?" 

"As you like." Francis shrugs. He jerks a chin towards his cabin. 

He smiles when James huffs and leads the way himself.

**Author's Note:**

> (This is low key inspired by several other fics with wardroom groping and Fitzjames Knee Moments.)


End file.
